


Breathe

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Breathplay, Coping, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Past Lives, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Trusting Byakuran would be a mistake, would be insanity of the highest order; and Irie knows this, knows it down in his bones and with every beat of his heart, and still, it’s not Byakuran’s betrayal that he fears. Irie doesn’t trust that he’ll stay." Irie is distracted by panic until Byakuran takes matters into his own hands.





	

It’s hard for Irie to trust Byakuran.

This should come as no surprise. Byakuran has betrayed him on countless occasions and in countless ways just in those timelines that Irie remembers personally. He’s sure that behind the violet glow of Byakuran’s eyes there are more shadows than he can dream of, recollections of pain and suffering and parallel-life trauma that Irie doesn’t even know about, that Irie never will know about. Trusting Byakuran would be a mistake, would be insanity of the highest order; and Irie knows this, knows it down in his bones and with every beat of his heart, and still, it’s not Byakuran’s betrayal that he fears.

Irie doesn’t trust that he’ll _stay_.

The panic hits again, now, as Byakuran’s touch lifts away from the inside of Irie’s knee, as Irie’s skin shivers into horror to eclipse the heat that has been rising along his spine, that has been weighting heavy into his limbs and slurring to steam in his thoughts. Irie’s eyes come open, his shoulders tense, and he’s halfway to sitting up before he can get his gaze to focus on the soft tangle of pale hair and the dark points of the tattoo that sometimes looks like the most real part of Byakuran.

“Calm down, Sho-chan,” Byakuran tells him, watching Irie instead of what he’s doing with his hands. There’s the glint of light off slick liquid, illumination collecting to drip over Byakuran’s fingers with promise that would be enough to spike desire high in Irie’s blood in other circumstances; but his chest is still tight on panic, his breathing still catching on the outline of brief, horrified fright, and he can’t find the air to ease himself back from the edge of terror even for the reassurance of Byakuran’s tone. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Irie licks his lips, swallows moisture back into his dry mouth. “I know,” he says, even if he doesn’t, even if the thud of his heart is more than enough to make a liar of him even before he sits up and reaches out for the loose edge of Byakuran’s shirt. Byakuran is still mostly dressed, except for the shoes he left at the front of Irie’s apartment, but for once Irie doesn’t feel any self-consciousness about the juxtaposition of his bare skin with Byakuran’s relative decency; he’s too caught in curling his fingers around the edge of the fabric, in tightening his grip as if that will be enough to keep Byakuran here, with him, as if that will be enough to keep the impossibility of Byakuran in his life from dissolving into the feverish fantasy it has so often been, before.

“We’re never going to get anywhere if you don’t relax,” Byakuran tells him, but he’s smiling amusement, his voice purring over the laughter that always sounds like the crackle of electricity to Irie. He leans in closer, infringing on the boundaries of Irie’s space until his shoulders press against the other’s, until Irie’s glasses bump Byakuran’s collarbone and knock off-center from the impact. “Lie back, Sho-chan.”

“Okay,” Irie manages, his voice sounding shaky even in his own ears. He tips his chin down to look at the fist his fingers are making of Byakuran’s shirt; staring at them directly he can make his grip ease, can unfold his fingers from the soft of the fabric through an exertion of will greater than any he has mustered before. It’s easier to manage with Byakuran here, with the heat of his breathing ruffling against Irie’s hair and the weight of his body so close; Irie’s imagination has never been this good, has never mustered this level of detail, and for a moment he can feel himself edging out over the precipice of trust, relying on Byakuran’s existence to continue long enough to loosen his grip and lower himself back over the bed. He doesn’t shut his eyes again. It’s habit to do so, some lingering self-consciousness from younger days that doesn’t want to see the way he looks reflected in a partner’s gaze, but even the burn of embarrassment that runs through him at seeing the way Byakuran smiles down at his bare skin isn’t as bad as the stomach-dropping panic that comes with the loss of sight.

“You look nervous,” Byakuran tells him, sounding more pleased by this observation than offended. He replaces his bracing touch at Irie’s knee; his hand is warm to the touch, radiates heat out into Irie’s panic-chilled skin and melts a little of the icy stress collecting along his spine. Byakuran’s gaze drags up Irie’s body, over the tremor in his legs and the flutter of his breathing in his chest, and catches to meet Irie’s stare for a heartstopping moment of adrenaline. Byakuran’s smile draws wider, melting out across his face like sugar warmed to caramel, and slick-cool fingers touch Irie’s skin to shudder the anticipation of friction sharp along the whole length of his spine.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran purrs, and his touch is pushing, is gaining force with the effort that doesn’t touch his face, that doesn’t even flicker awareness behind his eyes. “What are you so afraid of?”

 _You_ , Irie thinks but doesn’t say. _Losing you_.

“I’m,” he starts, and then Byakuran’s fingers slide against him, the stretch of the other’s touch pushes him open to slide into the heat of Irie’s body, and Irie loses his voice entirely, his throat tensing to cut off his words before they can spill past the part of his lips. For a moment there’s nothing in his head at all, nothing but the sensation enough to wash his thoughts to blissful silence for the span of a heartbeat. Then Byakuran slides his touch deeper, and Irie gasps a breath, and all the tension in him comes back with the rush of air filling his lungs with oxygen.

“Oh god,” he says, his voice whimpering over the words in a way he didn’t intend and can’t help. “Byakuran.”

“Yes,” Byakuran says, and it’s half reassurance and half satisfaction, as if he’s gaining existence from the shape of Irie’s desperation. “Like that, Sho-chan.” His fingers tighten against Irie’s knee, his grip bracing the other’s leg open as he slides his touch in deeper. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

Irie’s throat tightens again, presses his exhales into the strain of a moan. “ _Ah_.” He chokes through an inhale, making an effort to fill his lungs with air; when he breathes out again it comes a little easier, even around the electric awareness of Byakuran’s touch working farther inside him. “Yes.”

“Good.” Byakuran draws his hand back to thrust in again, a slow rhythm that feels almost exploratory, as if he’d be perfectly content just to work Irie open around his fingers for hours without ever even taking his shirt off. “Just breathe.”

Irie tries. It’s an easy thing, or it should be easy; all he has to do is relax, all he needs to do is lie back against the bed and let Byakuran lead him into heat. It’s not hard to trust Byakuran with this; lighting Irie’s blood to flame is something he’s always done effortlessly, often with so much elegance Irie isn’t even sure it’s intentional. But it was easier, before, before Irie had the memory of too-much light burning away the shadow of Byakuran’s silhouette in a stalled-out future and when there was always the strain of his own impending betrayal in the back of his head and tense at his spine. Then this was a pleasant distraction, a moment of selfish indulgence in physical relief that never touched the whirl of Irie’s thoughts, and it should be easier, now, with nothing to worry over except the slide and push of Byakuran’s touch; but it’s not, Irie’s anxiety has just gone formless and wild until he can’t even tell what it’s tethering itself to. It sparks against future-tense memories, stresses the edge of recollections gone hazy with impossibility, now, runs up and washes over the presence of Byakuran here, alive and real and warm between Irie’s knees. Irie keeps his eyes open, keeps his attention focused against the razor cut of Byakuran’s smile; but it’s not enough, the drag of the fingers inside him isn’t enough to hold him in himself. It’s like he can feel the edges of reality slipping, as if he’s losing his grasp on the moment and his surroundings and Byakuran himself, as if a careless gasp could knock him sideways out of this dream and into the darkness that waits for him in every other timeline he’s ever visited. Every time he blinks his lashes fray at the edges of Byakuran’s outline, the haze in the periphery of his glasses creeps in farther, until his shoulders are straining at the bed as much with panic as with pleasure, until his body is clenching around the drag of Byakuran’s touch as much to hold the other closer as in involuntary reaction to the motion.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran says, the sigh under his voice a warning Irie shudders for even before Byakuran stills the rhythm of his hand and starts to draw his fingers back. “Why are you so stressed?”

“I’m sorry,” Irie whimpers, hearing his voice crack into pleading apology and not knowing how to stop it. His spine is still thrumming with electricity, his skin is still flushed with desire; but his mind is full of shadows, his thoughts are trembling with fear too entrenched in his memories to be so easily set aside for physical pleasure. He can’t gain control over it, can’t wrest it back to reasonable levels; even as his body glows into greater tremors of heat the fear spikes higher to match it, as if his own mind won’t let him rely even on the simplicity of physical pleasure without assuming it will be wrenched away from his shaking fingers at the very moment of satisfaction. The idea makes him desperate, makes him tense in a way he can’t shake, until he’s reaching out for Byakuran’s shirt again, fisting his fingers into the fabric even though he knows Byakuran could push him off if he wanted to, even through trying to hold onto what he wants has never worked for him in any other timeline. “I’m trying to relax, really, I just--”

“Ssh,” Byakuran hums, and catches his fingers at Irie’s wrist to draw his touch back. His grip is gentle, his hold delicate; Irie can’t explain why it feels so like steel around his wrist, why his fingers go so bonelessly limp from the hold he’s been sustaining. Byakuran pulls Irie’s hand away, and lets his hold go as easily as he first set it into place, and Irie inhales on a breath that feels like a sob of panic before he sees Byakuran reach for the hem of his shirt and start to draw it up off his skin. “Just a few more minutes, Sho-chan, hold on.”

“I’m fine,” Irie lies, framing the words because he can’t manage the fact. He still wants to reach out for Byakuran, to tangle his fingers into the pale of the other’s hair and press against the flushed warmth of his skin just to prove to his skeptical mind that this is real, that Byakuran is real, that in this timeline he has finally attained the happiness so elusive in his other lives; but Byakuran is moving off the end of the bed so he can push the clinging weight of his torn jeans off his hips, and Irie has to let him at least get his clothes off, so he stays where he is, spread out over the sheets with his legs trembling with tension and his fingers catching and closing to fists on the fabric under him. His heart is racing, his breathing catching, and it only takes a few seconds for Byakuran to shed his clothes but Irie can count years by the thud of his pulse in his throat, feels like he’s lived a thousand lifetimes in the time it takes before Byakuran returns to the bed and fits back between his knees.

“You’re so tense,” Byakuran says, an observation more than a criticism. His touch against the other’s knee makes Irie’s whole leg jerk, makes him gust a sudden exhale like he’s spilling all the heat from his veins at once. Irie is afraid Byakuran will leave, afraid his smile will dissolve into the weight of a frown before the other slides away to leave Irie alone again, with nothing but too-thin fantasies to hold against himself; but Byakuran just laughs, easy and light as clouds against a summer-blue sky, and curls his hold in under Irie’s leg to brace him still against the bed.

“You really need to learn how to relax,” Byakuran observes, his head tipped down so he can watch what he’s doing. Irie’s breathing harder, oxygen burning into his lungs with every inhale and shuddering free of his hold before he’s ready; he doesn’t look down, doesn’t look at the flush of alternate panic and arousal mottling all across his skin, but he does look at Byakuran, looks at the way Byakuran’s lips curl around the sharp edges of his smile as he spreads Irie’s knees apart and reaches down to brace himself steady. Byakuran is all pale skin and purple shadows, his hair a soft frame for his face and the light falling to crisp edges at his collarbones and the line of his hips; but he’s warm to the touch, his hand at Irie’s knee radiant enough to shudder heat into the other’s veins even before Byakuran rocks forward to press the head of his cock against him. Then Irie’s burning, all his skin trying to run itself alight at once, his body seizing to painful tension on the first surge of anticipation; but Byakuran just waits, still smiling like he’s waiting for some cue while Irie shudders through that first wave of response until his body lets the strain go from exhaustion if nothing else. It’s only then that Byakuran pushes forward, still looking down with his head cocked into consideration, his smile unwavering even as Irie feels himself give way to the force of the other’s forward thrust. The friction runs sparks up his spine, coalesces to a flare of light at the back of his swirling thoughts; and over him Byakuran is sighing satisfaction, letting his bracing hold on himself go so he can let his fingertips alight at the inside of Irie’s spread-open leg instead.

“Sho-chan,” he purrs, head still tipped down as he draws back by a half-inch, as he rocks forward again. The force is irresistible even if Irie had any interest in attempting resistance; as it is his reactions are wholly involuntary, just shuddering waves of heat that clench him hard around the stretch of Byakuran moving into him. “Are you always this tight-wound?” Byakuran’s fingers glide up Irie’s thigh, dragging jolting sensation in their wake as he sustains the rhythmic thrust of his hips; Irie jerks under him, flinching with the force of the strain that catches hard at his spine, but Byakuran just hums as if he’s amused and braces his hand tighter at Irie’s knee. “It must be exhausting to be so stressed all the time.”

“Byakuran,” Irie whimpers, because _it is_ is too hard to say, because _don’t leave me_ sounds too desperate, because _I don’t remember how to be happy_ is too honest. “Please, just.”

“I know,” Byakuran says, catching the dropped end of Irie’s sentence as if answering a cue, as if they’ve rehearsed the hand-off of Irie’s voice to Byakuran’s tongue. “Just breathe, Sho-chan.”

Irie tries. It should be an easy task; Byakuran’s the one doing all the work, really, Byakuran is the one setting the pace of their bodies moving together and flickering the heat of pleasure out into Irie’s veins without Irie even needing to lift a hand to stroke over himself. All he has to do is lie still and let Byakuran’s hold at his knee brace him steady and Byakuran’s cock slide into him to draw him into a haze of heat while he relaxes to the sensation; but he can’t, he can’t get the flutter of panic at the back of his mind or the whirl of thoughts in his head to cease even for the span of an inhale. His heart is pounding harder in his chest, his breathing skidding over itself like it can’t find it’s footing, and it’s just as his vision starts to blur into dizziness that Byakuran says “Sho-chan,” and Irie’s attention snaps back to the other’s face.

Byakuran’s gone still over him. His hand is still at Irie’s knee, his fingers still dragging just against the inside of Irie’s leg; but he’s looking at the other’s face, now, his eyes dark with focus and his mouth oddly soft without the usual drag of a smile at his lips. His gaze catches at Irie’s hair, flickers over the other’s eyes, lands against the part of Irie’s lips; Irie’s spine sparks into self-consciousness, and he closes his mouth on the pant of his breathing just as Byakuran says, “You’re hyperventilating,” like he’s commenting on the weather.

Irie’s lungs are burning. He gasps for air, whimpering apology before he can manage “Sorry” with any kind of coherency to the word. “I can’t--I can’t--”

“I know,” Byakuran says, “it’s okay” and his hand is lifting from Irie’s leg, the casual weight of his touch vanishing before Irie can think to grab for it. Irie’s chest spasms, his lungs tensing for a wail of some kind of protest; and then there’s a weight at his throat, the touch of fingers landing feather-light against the line of his neck, and Irie exhales in a sudden, shocked rush as Byakuran’s hand slides to fit against his throat like a collar.

“Breathe,” Byakuran says, and his voice is an order, his gaze is unflinching. “Sho-chan.”

Irie breathes. He takes an enormous breath, feels it shudder in his lungs like it’s vibrating between the gaps in the ribs; and Byakuran’s fingers tighten, his grip seizing hard against Irie’s throat to close off the hiss of air in the other’s chest. Irie’s mouth works, his body straining on reflex to gasp for air he can’t get; and something inside the confines of his thoughts shudders itself to stillness and falls quiet against the inside of his skull. His lips are parted, his throat shifting under the unbreakable weight of Byakuran’s hand; but there’s nothing, no air in his throat and no movement past his lips, just the passive, implacable barrier of Byakuran’s grip.

“You’re fine,” Byakuran tells him, his voice level and his gaze steady. “Calm down.” Irie blinks, his vision clearing and steadying itself against the weight of Byakuran’s fingers at his throat; there’s a faint burn in his chest, the beginning of strain pushing against Byakuran’s hold. Byakuran’s eyelashes flutter, his mouth catches on a smile. “Breathe,” he says, a command certain of obedience, and Irie tries, attempting the impossible even as his mind tries to tell him it can’t be done. He opens his mouth, tries for breath; and Byakuran’s hold eases, going suddenly gentle enough to pass for a caress against the line of Irie’s throat. Irie’s lungs fill, his breath rushes out of him in shock, and the wall comes down again, Byakuran’s fingers cutting off his air supply without any hesitation at all.

“Good,” Byakuran says, and his hand lifts from Irie’s knee, his palm comes down to weight at the bed just over the other’s shoulder. He looks darker in shadow, all the porcelain white of his skin and hair collecting to violet and lavender as he tips forward. His eyes look nearly a match for the tattoo dripping to points across his cheek. “Just like that.” And he starts moving again, resuming the same steady pace he had before with his fingers still bracing hard against Irie’s throat.

Irie’s thoughts go quiet, still, calm like the surface of a glassy lake. There’s an ache in his chest, a burn for air that builds slowly over the span of seconds he doesn’t bother to count; but there’s Byakuran’s orders to mark the time, the simple command of “Breathe” that comes a moment before his fingers ease. There’s no pattern to it; sometimes Irie’s whole chest is burning for want of air, his vision is starting to haze with need underlined by the pattern of Byakuran fucking into him before the order comes, and sometimes it’s hard on the heels of the last, when even reflex doesn’t yet feel a need for more air. There’s no point in thinking about it, no point in trying to predict it; all Irie can do is lie still with Byakuran’s grip pressing against the line of his throat and Byakuran’s cock pressing him open with every forward thrust the other takes. His hands have eased at the sheets under him, his wrists have gone limp and his hands have turned up to make an offering of himself, and there’s nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, just shadow and sugar and the heat in his veins, the burn in his chest for need of air and the ache along his spine for need of friction, for the satisfaction of more than Byakuran is quite giving him, more force and more depth and more speed. Irie would plead, he thinks, if he had the air for it; but he doesn’t, and all he has left is to frame the words at his lips, to form out _please_ and _Byakuran_ and _more_ in some idle pattern shaped more around reflex than intent.

“Breathe,” Byakuran orders, and Irie breathes, responding as immediately as if Byakuran’s desires control his body more than his own do. His thoughts are clear, his focus clinging to the open question of when his next breath will come, of whether Byakuran will let him breathe before he passes out, of how high the burn under his skin will climb before he breaks into flame himself. He could push Byakuran off, he thinks, if he had the strength and the will to do so; but he lacks the latter, and doesn’t care to test the former, and he can’t think why he would want this to stop, why this would be something he wants to be free of. Byakuran’s grip is careful -- Irie thinks it won’t even bruise, will barely leave a fading line of red underneath the weight of the other’s touch -- but it’s impossible to break past, it’s as all-encompassing and overwhelming as Byakuran himself. There’s no question of Byakuran disappearing or evaporating as he so regularly does in Irie’s nightmares and memories alike; the weight at Irie’s throat is proof enough of that, the lack of air in his lungs irrevocable evidence of the other’s presence. As long as Byakuran’s grip is gauging out his breathing, as long as Byakuran’s weight is holding his throat closed, there’s nothing for Irie to do but submit, nothing he needs to worry about. There’s just the weight of surrender in his limbs, his whole body dragging heavier at the blankets under him; and the heat, the fire spiking up his spine with every movement Byakuran takes, the jolts of tension that shudder through the pliancy of his limbs unfettered by any attempt at self-control.

“Good,” Byakuran is saying, purring over the words at some great distance. Irie’s lungs are aching, his mouth is open on forgotten air; his vision has gone hazy, all he can see is purple fading into white as everything starts to go bright at the edges of his vision. “Once more. Breathe” and Byakuran’s fingers lift, and Irie gasps like a drowning man, obedient even though he doesn’t know what Byakuran means by the leading phrase. It doesn’t matter; the fingers are back, Byakuran’s hold tensing against his neck to press him to breathlessness, and more, this time, the weight of the other’s balance bearing Irie down against the sheets as Byakuran lifts his other hand from the bed and wraps his second hand close atop the first to lock Irie’s throat between the collar of his fingers. Irie’s lashes flutter, his body goes tight on sudden heat, and:

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran says, calm and level and purring. “Come.” Irie would protest, would whimper and say that he can’t just come on command, can’t make himself tip over the edge into pleasure; but his back is arching, his cock is twitching, and there’s relief sudden and startling coursing through his veins, pleasure pulsing through him in time with the spill of liquid across his stomach. His mouth is open, his thoughts blank, and whatever sound he might have made goes unvoiced, caught unheard inside the hold of Byakuran’s hands. Irie shudders through a tremor, another, a third jolt of heat; and then Byakuran gasps for air over him, his fingers tense to tip just over the edge of pain, and his lashes flutter shut for a heartbeat of heat as he bruises Irie’s throat and comes at once. Irie’s heart is racing, his whole body shivering with spasming aftershocks and the beginnings of desperation for air, but over him Byakuran is sighing into relief, and tipping forward to lie against him, and the hold at his throat is easing and sliding away, Byakuran’s fingers slipping up to wind into his hair instead. Irie’s throat aches, his breathing comes rough and raw with shadow of pressure still clinging to the skin; but when he manages “Byakuran?” dragging over the pain in his throat he just gets a purr of response, a hum of heat against the side of his neck and the shift of movement as lips catch and drag against his skin.

“It’s okay, Sho-chan,” Byakuran tells him. “Just breathe.”

Irie feels Byakuran’s fingers in his hair, winding through the strands with lazy appreciation, and Byakuran’s body hot against his, sticky like sugar at every point they touch; and he shuts his eyes, and shivers through an exhale, and obeys.

It’s easy when he can focus on just one thing.


End file.
